


Birth Of An Empire

by 131Shaw



Category: Asoiaf - Fandom, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Complicated Relationships, Jon/Dany endgame, Multi, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Valyria, Volantis, boat baby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2020-10-28 20:36:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20784722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/131Shaw/pseuds/131Shaw
Summary: Following the crowning of Brandon Stark Daenerys Targaryen is reborn in Essos. Forced into hiding, the Queen begins dreaming of a safe haven and sets her plan into motion. Five years after the events of GOT Westross is ravaged by rebellion. Brandon Stark is losing hold on his shrinking kingdom and an unforseen situation brings the Queen out of the shadows.





	1. Chapter 1

The Temple of the Graces was extraordinary to Zhinama, an immense structure of layered stone topped with sparkling golden domes. For as far back as she could recall Zhinama had only seen the insides of the dull candlelit Red Temple, her surroundings familiar and tedious. 

This was different. She was bathed in the warmth of the blazing sun, awash with colour and excitement. An adventure. Some of the other girls had been envious of her when she was chosen. Zhinama had been frightened. They had not told her where she was going or why or how long for and she was too troubled to ask. 

Long fingers curled around her forearm and hauled her inside. They were not wearing red. Zhinama left the Red Temple garbed in brown roughspun and tattered boots much too large for her dainty feet. She walked funny in them, stumbling and tripping all the way. At first it made her giggle but one sharp look from her Master put an end to that. 

They walked in silence, her head bowed, her hands clasped in front of her belly. She heard distant sniffling, the scuffle of sandalled toes on the intricately tiled floors. She dared to peek a glance and saw a woman, dressed in a sky blue and golden robe stood before one of the many tombs that lined the walls. Her dark hair was pinned tightly atop her head, greying at the roots. 

Zhinama wondered who she was weeping for. A mother or a brother? A daughter or a father? She thought what it would be like to have a brother of her own blood or a sister, younger than her and always annoying. Do I have father's nose? Mother's lips? These were questions that would never be answered. 

The weeping woman turned and caught Zhinama's gaze, she jerked her head to the right, back to the floor before her Master saw. They carried on, stepping carefully and quietly. Right foot and then left foot, barley making a sound. Zhinama had to concentrate to be extra careful. 

Her Master halted her with a heavy hand on her arm. They waited. There was a light tap, pause, then another, pause again followed by three more in quick succession. A door slid open with a horrible creak.   
They were ushered inside. Zhinama did not look at her face but she knew it was a her. The woman's feet were slender, encased in jewelled sandals that had long strips of leather winding up her legs beneath the skirt. The door closed with another creak behind them. 

"You're late!" The woman snapped, "The others arrived two nights ago." 

"I don't control the winds." Her Master sighed tiredly. 

Their ship had been delayed by poor winds. They had lulled in the open waters, bored and anxious. Her Master had prayed reverently for a day and half and in due time the Lord had heard him, sending strong waves of air to carry them the short distance to Meereen. Zhinama almost wished He hadn't. 

The woman huffed. Zhinama could feel her eyes boring into her head, carving new holes so as to expose her thoughts. Heat creeped up her neck. The woman huffed again. 

"We must be quick. They're going to start with or without you. She's been left too long already. Quickly now!" She gathered her skirts and started down the long hall, Zhinama and her Master hurried after her. Torches lit their way. 

They rushed down long twisting paths, climbed a staircase and then another. Zhinama's heart was pounding in her chest. Finally they came to a stop. 

"We go no further." The woman said. Zhinama felt sick. 

"Zhinama." Her Master's voice was gentle, encouraging. When she turned to look at him he was smiling, his lips pulled tightly into the creases of his cheeks. But his eyes were skittish, concerned. 

He had been a good Master. Fair and kind. She had only ever been smacked once, years and years ago now. It felt like a lifetime. Tears blurred her vision. Blinking them away, she turned, raised her chin and opened the door. 

Red. Red dresses. Red cloaks. Some even had red hair. They were huddled in little groups, their heads bent towards each other or else shifting from one foot to the other nervously. Several eyes locked onto her as she stepped into the chamber, warmed by the tall beeswax candles placed on the high tables. Almost all of them were older, much older than Zhinama, all expect for two. She saw no men in the chamber. 

"You must be Zhinama." Zhinama swept around, startled. She tried to swallow but her throat was dry as the sand outside the Temple's walls. Nodding Zhinama bowed her head, recognising the pulsing ruby at the base of the woman's neck. Sweat beaded on her forehead. 

"You need not be afraid, child." She said. Using two fingers she lifted the young girls chin and stared into her eyes, "No harm will come to you today. Do you know who I am?" 

Zhinama nodded, "Kinvara." She whispered, "High Priestess of the Red Temple in Volantis. You came to Meereen to support the Queen." 

"You pay attention." Kinvara said, a smile pulling at the edges of her lips. "Our Lord pays attention to you. Doesn't he?" 

Zhinama nodded slowly. He came to her in the night, His voice slithering into her ears and wrapping around the insides of her skull. He showed her things, sometimes they were terrible and Zhinama would awaken drenched in her own sweat, shaking from fright. Her Master told her she had a gift but Zhinama thought it a curse. 

Kinvara bent down onto her haunches and took Zhinama's hands in her own, "The Lord has chosen you, Zhinama. You and your sisters," She glanced over her shoulder at the other two young girls huddled together at the back of the chamber. Zhinama looked too. The girls stared back, their faces obscured by the wavering light. 

"Chosen us for what?" Zhinama was surprised at the steadiness of her own voice. 

"To be part of a future where light always wins." 

Kinvara rose as another woman fetched red robes. Zhinama dressed quickly. Her skin was damp, speckled with dried mud and itching awfully from the rough, flea ridden clothes she had been forced to wear. She wished she could have bathed first but nevertheless she felt a new girl in the clean red garments. 

Her long, almost black, hair was plastered to her head. She pulled up the hood of her cloak to hide it. Kinvara smiled down at her, eyes alight, bright as flame. The ruby at her neck glowed. 

"For the night is dark and full of terrors." 

Every person in the chamber repeated the words in perfect unison. 

The crowd parted, slinking back into the shadows to form a path. Zhinama almost didn't notice the other two girls join her. The four of them walked in a solemn silence, heels clicking, Zhinama's boots thudding. A door awaited them at the end. 

Suddenly Zhinama felt unnerved. Something terrible was on the other side of that door. Something unnatural. It was all too familiar. Beside her she could feel the other girls fear. It seeped out of them like a bad smell, tainting the air. 

The door was opened from within. Who or what waited on the other side was concealed by the High Priestess's wide skirts. 

A man, tall and handsome, garbed in leather, old and tattered. He watched the girls flutter inside, his thumbs continuously tapping the twin pommels of the daggers at his sides. 

Kinvara rested her hand on his arm, gently guiding him back and out of the girls way. They muttered quietly to each other, loud enough for the girls to hear but they weren't listening. 

Entranced, horrified, they gazed at the four poster bed. At the woman who lay there, motionless, dead.


	2. Daenerys - New Beginnings.

Daenerys Targaryen was floating at the edge of the world. Suspended in the space between life and death. In a land of nothingness there was no war, no bodies, not even her own thoughts could trouble her. For the first time in her life Daenerys Targaryen was free. 

But suddenly there was light. A burning hole carved in the black, calling to her, pulling her away. Her arms flailed, groping for something--anything---to stop the light from taking her. 

Her senses came back in a rush like a slap to the face. Thought and taste, smell and touch. Her mind whirled with the truth of her transgressions, a nightmare that she herself had forged. 

She could smell it, the smoke, ash. The corpses, the stink of them, it made her stomach lurch. But that wasn't the worst of it. Dany could still _feel_ him, the softness of his lips pressed to hers, the words on her tongue never said, tainted with the taste of blood. 

Then she was gasping, sucking in the humid air faster than her lungs could absorb it. Her chest strained, tightening, cramping and caving in on itself. Someone screamed. 

Calloused hands, damp with sweat, brushed against the icy flesh of her arm but she swatted them away. Folding over, her mouth parted to release a stream of luminous yellow liquid streaked with red. 

The world was a haze of blurred colours and shapes, strange figures hovering around her like flies. Their voices, one indistinguishable from the next, seemed a million miles away from Dany's ears. 

She hadn't realised she was shaking, sobbing, until muscled arms encircled her and held her trembling body still. 

Looming above her, tall as a giant, a monster smiled crimson red, "Welcome home, Your Grace." 

*** 

The small stone chamber was windowless with little furniture save for a polished wooden table, a single chair and the bed that had been erected for her use. Clusters of burning candles dotted the floor, their flames flickering under her breath. Dany passed the hours by watching them burn, waiting for the wax to drip onto the cool stone, where it solidified quickly and she could scrape it off with a fingernail. 

She was sure her sellsword thought her mad. _Maybe I am. Maybe I always have been. _When he tried to pull her from the floor she smacked him, leaving a burning print of her hand on his cheek. 

Kinvara replaced Daario. The High Priestess spoke softly, soothingly as a mother would to a child in distress. She assured her of Drogon's health, of Dragon's Bay's security, of the impending return of the Unsullied and Dothraki. While she rambled on of Westross and Essos and both countries belief of her death, Daenerys held her hand above a flame and counted how many times it licked her palm. Eventually Kinvara slinked away like a whipped puppy, back to the gaggle of priests waiting without. 

A gown was laid out for her, the black material soft in her fists as she tore it into shreds. A platter piled high with meat, potatoes and vegetables was brought. Two of the girls who had been present at her resurrection tried not to look at the Queen, who set the strips of cloth alight, but Dany saw them peek at her in alarm. The younger one, who carried the flagon of wine and it's sister cup, almost dropped them when Dany looked back. 

Ignoring the wine she took the dagger that had been left to cut the meat and began sawing at the tangle of her braids. The silver locks fell around her naked flesh, drifting to the floor silently and yet full of judgement. Dany had won the war but she had lost the only battle that mattered.

Tossing the braids onto the candles Dany felt lighter somehow. Unburdened. She was a Queen no more. 

With no windows Dany had no sense of time. She only knew that two of her shorter candles had long ago dwindled into mini pools of hard wax she could scratch names into. Names of friends and foes, dead and alive. When a third was within an inch of it's life the door was thrown open. 

A tub was carried inside and behind it the three girls in red hauled kettles of boiling water. Dany watched them fill the bath silently until the youngest tripped and steaming liquid splashed onto her legs. Without thought Dany jumped to her feet but the girl ran from the room wailing, the second right behind her. The third, with her limp, dark hair and wide brown eyes, took off her cloak and soaked up the water using her foot. 

"What's your name?" Dany's voice was guttural and thick. Her throat felt as dry as the red waste. Rising she poured not even a quarter of a cup and swallowed the sweet, purple liquid whole. 

The girl jumped as though she had not expected to be spoken to here, in this dimly lighted room, by a walking, breathing corpse. "Z-Zhinama." 

"Zhinama." Dany muses, "That's a pretty name." 

Zhinama sets the last kettle down and nods stiffly, "Thank you, Your Grace." 

"Call me Daenerys or Dany. I'm not a queen anymore." 

"Daenerys." Zhinama nods, her smile tight and gone within a second. She is not looking at Dany but rather staring at the bath wistfully. 

Dany notices the girl looks bedraggled, her skin coated in a thin layer of muck. The flaming tattoo on her cheek speaks of her status. "When was the last time you bathed?" 

"Days." The girl breathes, turning away from the water. 

Taking a handful of the stripped cloth she had yet to burn, Dany bunches them together to make a makeshift rag. "Sometimes me and Viserys would go weeks when the doors began to close on us." She dipped her fist into the water and squeezed out the excess liquid, "He wasn't so cruel then," she said absent-mindedly bringing the material to the girls skin, "we'd sleep wherever we could lay our heads, cold and hungry, but he'd tell me stories. Stories of the world, so vast and different from one another that they seemed unlikely to be true." 

Wordless, Zhinama stared at Dany. She reminded her of Missandei, sweet Missandei, who under soft brown eyes was as gentle as a shard of glass. 

"Is it true you and the other girls helped to bring me back?" Dany asked, as she scrubbed the girls arms. 

Zhinama flushed, "We only said some words, Your... Daenerys." 

"Powerful words. You must be very special to the Red Priests. To be so young and have such power." 

"I'm not that young." Zhinama said defensively. "I'm almost one and three." 

Dany smiled sadly. As a girl all she ever wanted was to stay a girl, to have the childhood that was robbed from her. 

"I wasn't much older than you when I was sold to the man I would marry." 

"Is that who...who did that to you?" She nodded at Dany's breast, at the tear in her flesh beneath the swelling curve. "A man? Your husband?" 

"He might've been." Dany whispered wistfully, "In another life." 

She was lost in thought, falling into a trap inside her head, where the snow was thick about them but his body entangled with hers summoned a fire from deep within. _Perhaps we could've ran away. _If he had not found out the truth behind his identity. _If he had not been repulsed by the thought of me in his bed. _

"You love him." Zhinama's voice was accusing, it's sharpness cutting through the fantasy. "He doesn't sound like a very nice man to love." 

"He's a good man." She wanted so badly to hold onto the memory of him, the light and not the dark that came after. "He was good and kind and honourable to a fault." 

So lost in the depths of her own mind was she that she hadn't noticed her and the girl had switched roles. "He _hurt_ you." Zhinama pronounced every word slowly and carefully, as though Dany did not know. 

"I hurt them first." A tear rolled down her cheek, warm and salty, "I broke my promise. I fell victim to the darkest parts of myself. I've always been dammed, Zhinama, dammed if I do and dammed if I don't."

Zhinama pondered on that for a few heartbeats, "My Master says prayer abolishes sin. He also says how is the Lord meant to forgive us if we don't first forgive ourselves?" 

Dany smiled wanly, "Your Master sounds like a wise man." 

"He is." Swishing the rag in the water she continued, "He's nice too. Some of the other Priests say he is _too _nice but I like him that way. Other Masters beat the girls, they walk around with purple marks all over them but not mine. He only hit me once, the first time when-" she clamped her lips shut and shook her head, "It was a long time ago." 

Dany wanted to press her. _Hit you when? For what? _Instead she asked, "Do you wish to return to him?" When she didn't answer she said, "You don't have to. You could go home or stay here." 

"Is home where mother and father are?" 

"I thought so." 

Zhinama shrugged, her bony shoulders lifting and dropping. "I don't have a home." 

"Neither do I." Dany let the girl scrape the dirt from beneath her fingernails.

She remembered the red door and the lemon tree outside her window, a memory that seemed to have imprinted itself a thousand years ago. How many wars had there been in the last decade, here and across the Narrow Sea? How many men and women killed? How many more children, living in squalor, without a home? 

"We shall have to make one." 

"A home?" Zhinama's eyes lit up. 

"A home." Dany agreed, "For all the girls and boys like us." 

Surprising her, Zhinama threw her arms about Dany's neck and hugged the Queen close. Humming a song, a small hand crawled down Dany's body to lay flat against the growing bulge of her belly.

"A girl." She said, matter of factly. 

Dany placed her hand atop Zhinama's. 

_A girl with a home. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since A03 is going to be down for some time tomorrow I've updated early and thought I'd take this time to answer a few questions I got through comments on the first part of this story. 
> 
> 1\. Concerning Daario. Daario is going to a recurring character for the simple fact that he is alive and per show cannon still loyal to and in love with Daenerys. Dany, as we know, lost almost everything in S8 and I feel like it would be important to her to have a familiar face around. Are they sleeping together in future chapters? Yes. It's not that wild. Am I going to write chapters about their relationship/sex? No. That's not the story. Is there going to be a bit of a love triangle/rivalry between Jon and Daario? Yes. A bit of trouble makes things fun. 
> 
> 2\. To Dany's marriage in this story. Dany is married in future chapters, it is a marriage made for an alliance, not love and I thought it made sense. We know she acquired a mass of wealth in Essos, we know she had the support of many there but we have to perceive that she still had enemies since the show never quite wrapped up that storyline. We all know wars cost gold, keeping cities alive cost gold and it makes zero sense for her to still be rolling around in riches after the events of S8, while also ensuring that the cities she liberated have the money to keep standing. Since Dany is believed to be dead, with few knowing the truth, it would also be hard for her to acquire funds. That is my reason for her being married. It will all be explained through the characters in future chapters and anything that isn't, I'm happy to answer in (polite) comments. 
> 
> 3\. Is this fic similar to others? Possibly. I don't read many fics in general. I've only read a few standalone works about Dany that were released right after the finale. If this fic turns out to be similar to another creator's work I apologise to both you and them. I wrote this for me. Because I wanted to, because I thought the ending I have in my mind would be bittersweet and I thought I would share it. Finally I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who's left nice comments and is enjoying the story so far. Next up is Tyrion five years into a destructive Westross, then Jon and we'll take it from there.


	3. Tyrion - Five Years Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super duper sorry for this extremely late update. I had some personal issues that took me away from writing. Two very overdue chapters are here and I hope to get back to weekly or more frequent updates.

Tyrion could not help but compare her huge breasts to melons, great massive melons that burst with sweetness in his mouth. Suddenly he had an urge to bite them and realised he was ravenous with hunger. Almost as if the girl could read his mind Clara stretched and snatched a stem of grapes from the bowl, hovering them just above his mouth for him to nibble. 

"M'Lord, can I ask you a question?" 

"So long as it's not about the King." Tyrion mumbled. 

That's all anyone ever wanted to know. 

Where was the king?

How is the king?

What is the king?

Tyrion himself could not be sure of the answers to those questions. 

"It's not about the King, m'lord." She assured him. Rolling off of Tyrion Clara sprawled beside him, pulling the pods off one by one, sharing them between the two. "I want to know if the rumours are true." 

"What rumours would those be?" 

"The one's about her. The one's about the Mad King's daughter." 

Something woke inside of Tyrion. Something alive, hot with need and cold with dread.

That's what they call her. The Mad King's daughter or the Mad Bitch. 

It was as though the smallfolk believed just uttering her name would bring a rain of dragon fire down upon them. Maybe it would.

"Men come into the Taverns, m'lord. Fisherman, oarsmen, traders." She continued, "Men from across the Narrow Sea." 

Rising from beneath the thick bedclothes with a deep sigh, Tyrion shuffled across the stifling chamber to fill two cups with a Dornish Red. "And what do these fishermen, oarsmen and traders tell you?" 

"They tell us that if you look out a window at night in Meereen you will see a pale rider mounted atop a beast with eyes of molten lava. They say that if you sail close to the Smoking Sea you can hear her vengeful scream." 

Tyrion struggled to suppress a laugh. He doubted that any of the men who frequented the establishments on the Street of Silk had sailed within even a mile of the Smoking Sea and if they had all to see was the past. He emptied the contents of his glass down his throat and refilled. 

"So?" Clara promoted, jolting upright. 

"So men like to talk tall tales to pretty women. They're just stories," he said, to the girls disappointment. "New stories to frighten little children into obedience. Behave or else the Mad Bitch will descend from the sky and have her beast eat you whole!" 

Eyes the colour of the sea rolled in deep sockets as slim fingers shot out and snatched the glass from his hand. 

"The truth is almost always less exciting." Tyrion mummered. 

"Then tell me the truth of that day." Clara demanded, a challenge in her eyes. "Tell me about the day King's Landing burned." 

"What more truth is there to be told?" 

"You were there," Taking his hand Clara pulled him back down into the tangle of sheets, "The men in the taverns weren't. I want to hear it from you." 

Tyrion shrugged. A slow, exaggerated lift of his shoulders. The action pulled at the muscles in his neck, "She burned the city." He said simply.

Clara shook her head, strands of dull gold flying free from her braid. "But why?" She asked, the question more directed to herself than to Tyrion. A question he had tried and failed to find an answer to. 

"Why do you think?" 

Gnawing on her bottom lip, until there was a clear imprint of her teeth, Clara thought, ""I think she was angry, m'lord." She whispered at last, "So angry she was blind. My father used to get angry like that. He would tear the whole house apart and when he was done he would fall to the ground and sob. He was in the war, the one after King Robert died. Mother said war changes people. He hung himself with rope not longer after." She held the glass to her lips and Tyrion watched the contents disappear, thought over her words. 

So angry she was blind.

A knock sounded at the door.

"What is it?" Tyrion called. 

"The Grand Maester has requested your presence, my lord. He asks that you summon the small council." The faceless voice replied. 

"So be it. Send the summons." 

"Should I wait for you, m'lord?" Clara asked, once the footsteps had retreated down the hall.

"That depends." Tyrion forced his stunted legs into his breeches, "Are you going to bombard me with more questions about days I'd sooner forget?" 

"No." Crawling across the bed Clara took hold of the laces and began tying them. "I aim to provide the answers to your deepest desires." 

And she sealed the promise with a kiss to his naval. 

I wonder how many times she's repeated those words to countless other men. Even so the corners of his lips tugged up involuntarily. 

"Wait here." Still pulling on his clothes Tyrion stumbled out of the bedchamber and into the cold night. 

Before long his legs began to cramp. He kneaded his thighs awkwardly as he scurried down hallways and slumped down steps. Even within the stone walls his breath frosted. 

"Lawsen!" 

The boy stopped mid stride, pivoted on his heel at the bottom of the stairwell so they were face to face. "Ser Davos Seaworth is en route, my lord." 

"The king and Ser Brienne?"

Lawsen Lydden shook his head. "The king does not wish to be disturbed, my lord." 

No King I've known ever does, Tyrion thought. "Do you know what this urgent business is about?" 

"No, my lord. The Grand Maester was... deeply concerned, my lord." 

Digging in his pocket Tyrion found a loose golden dragon and tossed it to the boy. "Go to bed, Lydden." 

"Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord." He clutched the coin close to his chest. 

Grand Maester Ivarn beat Tyrion to the small council chambers. "Grand Maester." Tyrion greeted him, "What is so urgent you would drag me away from my slumber?" 

"You were not sleeping." Ivarn grumbled. One gnarled hand slid up into his wide sleeve and reappeared with a letter. He tossed it into the center of the table. 

Tyrion snatched the letter and moaned. "You woke me for this?" The letter was addressed to Gilly, the seal broken. 

"No. We should wait to discuss the matters I bring until the other Lords have arrived." 

Climbing and then sinking into his seat Tyrion unfolded the parchment and skimmed Sam's elegant cursive. The contents were of no interest. Sam babbled on, asked of the children, then babbled on some more.

"Did you read this, Grand Maester?" Tyrion tucked the letter away to pass onto Gilly. 

"The King gave me every right to open letters sent to his majesty."

"This was not addressed to the king." He pointed out, "You should know better than to interfere in matters between man and wife." 

"That marriage was annulled!" Ivarn bristled. "It should never have been sanctioned. Samwell took solemn oaths!" 

"What would you have us do?" Tyrion asked lightly, "Cast the girl and her little ones out or perhaps silence them forever?" 

The Grand Maester glared at the Lord Tyrion. "I would have men keep their word." 

Tyrion tapped his fingertips against the arm of his seat and watched the Grand Maester huff and growl low in his throat like an angry wolf. His discontent with all of them was undisguised and Tyrion's dislike of him was blatant. 

He thought them all oath breakers, cheaters, liars and almost every man of them was--or had been--at one time or another. 

Lord Davos Seaworth shuffled into the chamber, the remnants of last night's snowfall sliding off of his black leather boots. "Tell me this winter is at an end." 

"Unfortunately not." Ivarn looked out to the empty hall, "Rolan?" 

"He is not yet returned from the Stormlands." Tyrion yawned and then smiled to himself. A small council indeed. He remembered when this room was filled with men, great men with great dreams, and a land before them that was theirs to govern. 

"Very well." Ivarn produced a rolled up parchment and handed it to the Lord Tyrion. "I received this only minutes before I called for you. Dorne has made it's move." 

Frowning Tyrion read the words, Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken. 

"I don't understand." 

"I also received this from the Lord Bronn." 

Another letter was produced, a letter that spoke of doom and defeat. 

"Manfrey Martell has besieged High Garden." Ivarn explained before handing the second letter over. "He has surrounded the walls and asks that Bronn submit the castle. He has made the promise to Bronn that no man shall come to harm if he meets his demands." 

"The small houses of the Reach?" Davos asked. 

"Will turn a blind eye." Tyrion answered, "They like Bronn little and they like us less. If Manfrey takes the castle they will rally to him."

And everyone in the room knew the truth of that. King's Landing would become their cage. Cornered prey for the predators to feast upon. 

The wrangle began. There was talk of attacking Sunspear. Hitting them where it would hurt, driving them back to where they came from. How how many men could be mustered. How many ships, where would those ships dock, how would those ships escape the beasts of the Ironborn under Yara's rule. What numbers would the men expect to face, how many would they loose. At what risk would the Reach be secured. It went on for some time, a two man argument while Tyrion listened and thought. 

Unexpectedly he found himself wishing his father was still alive. The great Lord Tywin who would have never let any of this happen. Tyrion could only see one course of action and it pained him to say so. 

"Tell Bronn to surrender the castle." 

Conversation ceased. 

"My Lord Hand, I would not-" Ivarn began. 

"We will need every man, every boy, every woman willing to fight to win this war, my lords." Tyrion interrupted him. "Even then it may not be enough. The North is gone. We cannot help them. They cannot help us. Yara Greyjoy, who styles herself Queen of the Iron Islands, holds the Twins and rules the sea. Dorne has been a long time coming."

"Manfrey will have her support. He will have her aid. Our forces are dispersed across the land. If we attack Sunspear we may prevail but we will loose a great many good men, men who are too valuable to us in this time. The same can be said for leading a force against Manfrey outside the walls of High Garden. I would sooner retreat and defend what we can." 

There was a long silence that followed. Ser Davos stared into the writhing flames of the hearth. The Grand Maester's dark eyes locked onto Tyrion, the fury in the irises building by the second. 

"When you feed a starving beast it only comes back for more. Your father would never have stood for this." 

"My father would send every man he could muster." Tyrion admitted, surprising the Grand Maester, "My father would burn halls and farmsteads, capture and kill women and children. Anger the enemy and drive the deepest of fears into their hearts. My father would ride to his own death and secure all of ours with it. So would my sister. I am not my father and I am _not _my sister, Grand Maester." 

Tyrion rose from his seat and stared the weasel of a man in the eyes, "Write to Lord Bronn. Tell him the King orders he surrender the castle."

Outside, under a cool night sky, Tyrion could breathe again. Clouds of smoke exhaled from his parted lips. The cold pierced his bones. For an instant he wondered if death was cold like snow or warm like fire. 

"I'm not so sure about this." Ser Davos Seaworth intruded. 

"Neither am I," Tyrion whispered. He glanced down at the silver hand that decorated his jerkin. "But what choice do we have?" 

"Little choice indeed." A heavy hand missing two fingers fell onto his shoulder, "Sleep well, my friend. While you still can." 

Tyrion would not sleep tonight. Instead he wrapped his arms around himself and stared up at the sky. The stars winked at him, the Gods laughing at his cruel fate. 

He reminisced about days long gone, friends rotting in their graves or now ash in the wind, the women he had loved. He had only ever loved three women and all three were dead. Tysha with her Myrish melodies, Shae and her wicked smile and then there was the last. The woman who trumped all others. From the first time Tyrion laid eyes on her he found himself falling. He wondered what the world look like had she fulfilled her promise. 

_Had I not betrayed her. _

Burying his head in his hands Tyrion wondered, not for the first or the last, if he had made the right choice. _The just choice_. But what was just anymore in this land where the evil men roamed unchecked? Five years had passed and he had five more to go.   
  
  
  



	4. Jon - The Rural North

Jon Snow never stayed in one place for longer than three days. As the months wore on supplies were harder to come by. 

Ghost would come back to him every couple of days with game. A hare or a squirrel, rarely something larger than a fox. Jon split the meat and split his again, salting and storing it in a pack filled with snow and ice to persevere. 

He had lost one of his toes to frostbite. The flesh had blackened at the tip and spread down the length until Longclaw cut down and severed it from the foot. 

Jon had been alone for three years. 

Sometimes he thought he must die soon. A hundred things could take him. One wrong step. A Shadowcat. The below freezing temperatures that seemed to penetrate even a man's bones. Starvation. The madness. 

There was a madness in him. However that wasn't what scared Jon. What scared Jon was his drive to live. 

He made camp in the mid afternoon. The sun was low in the West, a mere glimmer behind slabs of white cloud. Mountains rose to the East, stretching beyond the world's crest, up into the domain of the Gods. 

It was on days like this that Jon was glad he was alive so he could gaze upon a beauty rare to a man in a world of horrors. But with great beauty came great pain. 

There was a wound slashed across Jon's mind. A wound so deep it wound never heal, instead it festered and weeped, infecting every part of him. 

He could not think about her. To think of her was to fall, to stand on the edge and leap into the darkness. But he saw her. Not in dreams nor memory as a normal man would. He would see her standing by his stallion in the dawn. A ghost come to haunt him. 

Her hair was always loose, cascading down her back in waves, gently swaying in the wind. Her pale, naked flesh seemed to glow in the sunlight. A stark contrast to the thick, deep red liquid that pooled around her feet. 

Jon felt her at night. Her arms cradled him like he were a babe. Her breath cold against his cheek as a corpses might be. Jon had come to the conclusion that if he was to look upon her face he would die. 

He would her laugh and scream and sob. It was like music to him. A dependency he didn't know he had. 

Jon made a makeshift shelter for the night against a rock, using torn cloaks and fur pelts. He built a small fire and warmed his hands over the flames, letting them lick at the frozen flesh, revelling in the sting it caused when his horse suddenly whinnied. 

Longclaw scraped the scabbard as he drew the sword, it's deadly edge highlighted by the fire. He listened closely. It was almost dusk and the land was still apart from distant horse hoofs crunching snow. 

Jon waited outside, watched the horse and it's rider approach, ready to attack. About twenty feet away the rider dismounted and removed his hood. Jon lowered his blade, this man was no threat. 

Tormund Giantsbane had gotten old. As he approached leading his mare, Jon saw the man's fiery red hair was streaked grey. His beard reached to his belt, the hair coarse and wiry. But he smiled with the youth of a man still in his boyhood. 

"How did you find me?" Jon called, sheathing the blade. 

"Five years in the real North and you still don't know nothing, Jon Snow." Tormund engulfed him in a bone crushing hug. "I have missed you and your tiny cock." He glanced around, "Where's the wolf?" 

"Out hunting." 

"Shame." He pouted, "I brought meat enough for three. A man must eat!" 

His horse was pulling along half a deer, fat enough to feed a dozen. Tormund sawed the meat from the bone, Jon skewered it and on opposite sides of the fire they watched the flesh crisp and blacken. 

In the last light of day Jon saw a plume of smoke to the South. "There's smoke." 

Tormund looked to the sky and waved a nonchalant hand, 

"There's war, Jon. Smoke comes with war." 

"Any news?" 

When Jon left the settlement three years before the war had only just begun, if it could have even been called such. It seemed like a farce back then. A last ditch effort by the Ironborn to declare their discontent. But a year later he came upon some travellers who told of him of the growing force behind the self declared Queen. 

"None of it good." Tormund tore into a chunk of flesh still bloody inside. The juices dripped down into his beard, "The whole fucking country is in it now. Fighting over who gets to stand above the kneelers. Your sister is trapped in Winterfell and she had a baby. A boy, some say he's sickly like his father. Your brother... There's not much to say about your brother. He's loosing." 

Jon wanted to know about Arya. He wondered where she was. If she had gone West of Westross and what had she found? He could only hope that happiness had found her wherever she might be. 

Jon took his own meat from the fire and chewed the flesh slowly, savouring every bite. "Why did you seek me out, Tormund?" 

The big man swallowed, belched, "How long have you been out here? Two years? Longer? I've known men be lost in the wild for mere months and come back half mad. Seeing things, hearing voices in the wind." 

Jon's lips twitched upwards, "You're worried about me." 

"I am. You're my friend." He sighed, "Come home. There's food, mead, women. Plenty of women! All of whom would be grateful to have been carried off by Jon Snow in the night. Or has the cold turned your cock into a raisin?" 

Jon laughed. It had been so long since he laughed. He remembered her on the ship, their limbs tangled together beneath the bedclothes, pink in the face from laughing. Jon shook his head, melted snow flicking from the long locks, "I can't." 

Tormund opened a pouch, gulped half the liquid and offered it to Jon. He took it. The mead was weak and tasted like piss but with enough it warmed his belly. 

"Before I left seven boys disappeared." Tormund whispered. "Some not even old enough to have a girl. People are afraid, Jon. It's still winter down south, some say it's a sign." 

"What do you want from me?" Jon asked, handing the empty pouch back. 

"It's not what I want. It's what they want and they want Jon Snow. You protected them once and they'll look to you again as they once did to Mance." 

"A shadowcat, bear, a storm," Jon reeled off from his list of a hundred ways to die in the North. 

Tormund nodded, "Most likely but the past is not the past until those that live no longer remember. Come back with me. Let them see you. Tell them there's no danger. Let them feel safe." 

Next morning Jon and Tormund rode South. Ghost found them late morning, his muzzle stained with last night's kill and she walked beside him. Her fingers were curled around his reigns, the hilt of the dagger wedged in her chest pointed to the horizon. And though she was stiff and still he could hear her sob.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write a GOT fanfic for ages and here it finally is! Kind of a fix it, I suppose? I'm not sure how many parts it will have yet but you can expect various POV's, (I hope I do the characters justice), and lots of death. I'm kind of going off Dumb and Dumber's writing and characterisation but I'm also trying to fill in the huge holes they left with their book counterparts. 
> 
> For anyone who saw the name Manfrey Martell in the tags and was confused that's who D&D's random dornish Prince is going to be. I've also decided that Robert Arryn and Sansa Stark are going to be a married couple as for one I completely disagree with Sophie's comment that Sansa wouldn't marry or have children and for two it makes sense for the way D&D left the narrative. 
> 
> That's all. I'm going to try and update every Friday but I make no promises on the day so keep an eye out.


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